


Red Pens and Keyboards

by SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Attempt at Humor, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Dialogue Heavy, First Date, Gawain is Perpetually done dad, Gawain is an Editor, Getting Together, Lancelot is a writer, M/M, Modern AU, Mutual Pining, No Beta, Rated for Suggestive themes and minor swearing, Squirrel is Sassy, The Author Regrets Nothing, dialogue prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28589799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight/pseuds/SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight
Summary: Lancelot is a new writer. Gawain is his editor. They meet outside the office for once at a nook in the wall coffee shop.  A little bit of chaos ensues. Percival is the the one with the relationship knowledge in this one. His dad needs to ask Lancelot out already.Cursed PromptCoffee Shop AU
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17
Collections: Netflix's Cursed - Monthly prompts picked by a cursed bot!





	Red Pens and Keyboards

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not good at humor but I hope this gets some chuckles. I asked for a prompt and my brain was like "YEAH MAN! LETS DO IT!" so I did. And it is now almost 2 AM for me. 
> 
> Enjoy.

Lancelot ran. He was fucked. This was the third time in as many weeks he had been late for meeting his editor. It hadn’t been a common occurrence until lately. For months he had been on time, but the last few weeks he’d been feeling increasingly more inspired and had been staying up later and later to write. That was in his opinion a valid reason for being late of course. He had overslept. Again. He was currently working fulltime and then some during the day and when he returned home at night he wrote. Last night he had been especially inspired, the same way he had been the last three times he’d been meant to meet with Gawain. He didn’t think too deeply as to why the inspiration was linked to these nights, but he certainly would not push it away. 

He jumped over a large puddle in the middle of the sidewalk and nearly slipped. Righting himself he carried on, satchel thrown over his shoulder and nose tucked into his greying scarf. Grimacing he hoped that the rain wouldn't ruin the manuscript and his laptop. He’d forgotten his umbrella because of course he did. He ducked around the corner and, avoiding the drip edge of the shop roofs, bolted towards the coffee shop at the end of the block. The problem, he mused, with being a brand new and unknown author is that it didn’t provide an income that was liveable. He had self published and had a meager following. Then one day a man had called and offered to take him on Pro Bono. It was a risky move for Gawain to have taken and Lancelot was certain this would be the last straw.    
  
Stopping outside Nemos he gathered himself, rain splashing on his face. He looked through the water speckled window for the brown haired man. He couldn't help but smile to himself when he saw him tucked in the back corner table.Gawain was well put together and wearing that green sweater that absolutely did not highlight his eyes or make him look a hundred times more attractive. Lancelot blushed to himself and shook his head. He was half an hour late and looked like shit in comparison. He had thrown his hair hastily into a bun, and knew he had circles that rivaled a raccoon's mask ringing his eyes. Taking a breath and setting his features to polite indifference he entered the store with his shoulders squared. If he was going to lose this gig, better do it with dignity. He approached the table where Gawain was tapping away on his laptop. Swallowing he opened his mouth to speak. Gawain, of course, chose that moment to make eye contact with him and smile. The words died in his suddenly very dry throat. His composure breaks just a touch with it.   
  
“Over sleep again?”    
  
“Uhm.” He sounded very dumb but Gawain just laughed.    
  
“The writing bug got you last night, then?”    
  
“Definitely.” He said sitting in the adjacent chair. Why wasn’t he getting his ass chewed? “I apologize. I’ve wasted your time.”    
  
“Nonsense. It happens when one works in our business. I can edit just as well here as my office so I’ve been working. Besides, you're my only meeting today.” The editor said putting his laptop aside. 

  
“Did you bring the printed version for me?”    
  
“Just like you asked.”    
  
“Very good, go grab some coffee so you look like you could use it.” Lancelot nodded and left the table as Gawain set to work with his pen. He wondered if the man knew how adorable he was with his face screwed up in concentration, pen resting idly against his very kissable lips. Lancelot rubbed his face. He really needed some caffeine. That was his editor. Nothing more. 

Despite his serious caffeine addiction, Lancelot did not drink coffee. Tea and energy drinks were his go to, and this being a coffee shop changed nothing. He ordered a hot extra strong, meaning very bitter, black tea. He couldn’t be bothered to care what kind, or brand, only that it was strong. He rubbed his numb fingers together in a poor attempt to regain blood flow. It stung when he was handed the almost too hot cup of tea. He lifted it to his lips and thought better of it. He did not need to scald his tongue and make a fool of himself. The embarrassment of being late was enough. Turning back towards the table he stopped. There was a young boy engaged in conversation with Gawain. He recognized him from the photos in his office. The office that they currently were not meeting in. He brushed the thought aside to be evaluated at a later time and worked his way back to the couple.    
  


“How much longer?” The boy asks as though it’s an innocent question.    
  
“You’ve got somewhere to be?” Gawain is far from moved by the question, eyes barely leaving the papers in front of him.   
  
“No, but I'm bored.” He stretches the “r” and lands hard on the “d”as if to emphasize his point.    
  
“You asked to come with me Percival.” And that must be Gawain's dad voice, because the man sounds about as done as done can be with this line of conversation. At least he assumes he's the boy's father.    
  
“I know. But really this place is bloody awful, it smells like burnt coffee.” If one's voice could sound like an eye roll that was definitely it.    
  
“Percival!” Even Lancelot straightens his spine at the stern tone.   
  
“Sorry.”    
  
He wants to laugh, the boy isn’t wrong so he bites his lip and smiles, tucking his nose back into his scarf. Quietly so as not to interrupt the conversation, but definitely noticed he sets his drink down and pulls his laptop out. They have a system, Gawain edits, he writes, then he makes those edits on the digital copy. But Gawain likes him to be present for the editing, which is why they go chapter by chapter. He promises that he will read it all at once when it's finished as a final edit and continuity check and that's good enough for Lance. He isn’t the editor after all. Gawain sighs and it brings him from his thoughts. He looks up from the login screen he's been staring at. He should do that eventually.    
  
“Lancelot, this is Percival, Percival meet Lancelot.”    
  
“Nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand and the boy takes it politely.    
  
“You're sure this isn’t a date? Because you never meet people outside your office.” Lancelot feels his face burn and pointedly doesn’t look at Gawain. That is definitely interesting knowledge to possess. The silence that follows lasts a beat or three to long.    
  
“I am  _ technically  _ working. And for the record Percival, dates don’t always occur by  _ going out _ . Now, we have work to do, so here is my laptop, you know the rules, fix your boredom.”    
  


The boy rolls his eyes and takes the offered electronic.    
  


“Sorry about that.” Gawain murmurs halfheartedly, eyes cast at the manuscript before him, pen twirling in his fingers, and face unmistakably flushed.    
  
“That's alright. He’s your son, right?”   
  
“Adopted, yes. His parents were good friends of mine.”    
  
“I’m sorry.”    
  
“Thank you. He seems to be adjusting well.” He tracks Gawain's gaze to the dirty blond boy and smiles.    
  
“He seems like a spit fire.”    
  
“He is. With a foul tongue at that.” They share a laugh over it. Lancelot changes the subject after. He’s a little unsure where the boundaries are and decides to play it safe by speaking about work.    
  
“There's two chapters there… I managed a full chapter last night, and then some.” 

  
“That's impressive. How much sleep did you end up getting then?” 

  
“Uhm… I think four hours or so.” He squirms under the scrutiny of Gawain's gaze, and withers at the deadpan admonishment that he receives.    
  
“It's a wonder your heart doesn’t give out, between your caffeine addiction and lack of sleep.” 

He nods. There isn’t an argument in his favor. Swallowing he starts again,    
  
“If we don’t get through it all that's fine. I just figured I would bring it since I have it.”    
  
“I’m grateful you did. One chapter never seems quiet enough. Reminds me of some of the stories I read online. I may be an editor, but I am highly impatient when it comes to stories I enjoy.”   
  
“Online, as in self published stuff? Or… fanfiction?” Gawain tilts his head and smirks,   
  
“Both.”    
  
“Oh my god. Is that how you found me?” He panics, heart racing in his chest as he thinks about everything he's ever posted. Maybe his pseudonyms hadn’t been different enough if Gawain had found him. Or maybe he hadn’t put it together that the Weeping Monk and The Gray Monk were the same writer. Even when he had self published he hadn’t had the courage to do so under his real name, more accustomed to running around with usernames and gamer tags.    
  
“You did self publish via Amazon. And I am always looking for good writers, Monk.”    
  
He wants to die. He can feel the burn of embarrassment spread up his neck and slither across his cheeks. He doesn’t know if Gawain knows but that doesn’t stop his brain from running down every possibility in 10 seconds flat. And if he didn’t put it together he sure as hell could now. He’d as good as admitted that he writes for fandoms. Gawain takes mercy on him and chuckles lightly before turning back to his work. Horrified, Lancelot takes a long drink from his still too hot, very bitter tea. Today has been insane and it's only 9:56. He needs to go back to bed. 

He licks his lips and turns to his laptop. He needs to write. He’s certain that if he can just bury himself in the world he has created for long enough the embarrassment and stray thoughts about asking Gawain out will leave him alone. With some effort he manages to zone out of the coffee shop around them, the sounds and smells fading into the background. His tea goes cold while he works. Patrons have begun flooding the shop for the lunch rush and he doesn't notice it, nor does he notice the muffin that's sitting beside him now. What he does notice is that his character's love interest is starting to resemble his own quiet vividly. Angrily he highlights the section and deletes it with a growl. Can’t have that. What would Gawain think? He has no idea what Gawain's preference is, and the other man hasn’t given much in the way of indication in the matter… not that Lancelot is great at picking up on it anyways.    
  


He starts the section over. He focuses on the click clack of his keyboard and writes Gavin slightly differently. It’s not working and he sighs defeated. He should really change the name too. This is his introduction chapter. Gawain hasn’t seen it. There's still time. He’s about to stand and stretch, take a drink of his tea and ask about Gawain's progress when all movement in Nemos stops.    
  
“ **Why do they have a magic portal in the bathtub?** ” Gawain's shocked tone is loud enough that he recoils away from it.    
  
He makes eye contact and sucks in a breath. Have Gawain's eyes always been this green? They are shiny with water. Was he going to cry? Laugh? Wait there was a question he was probably supposed to answer.    
  
“Uh, comedy? Magic?” Gawain actually glares at him, and he takes a slow measured drink from very cold tea. That was apparently very much not the right answer. He swallows with difficulty, because how can those eyes be this distracting right now. He ignores the spike of arousal it sends down his spine. Nope. This is very much not the correct environment for this. He looks around the room casually.    
  
“Lancelot?”    
  
“I wrote myself into a corner and needed a convenient way for my protagonist to escape. It seemed clever when I wrote it. Apparently not.” He shrugs and turns back to his laptop. “I can fix it later, when I have more sleep in my system.”    
  
“I, no. I,” Gawain reaches across the table and grabs his wrist. He looks up at the man, hurt must be written on his face, because Gawain frowns at him.    
  
“I think it’s brilliant and very funny. I just was so unprepared for it. The rest of the book has been so serious and the magic has been all designed for the purposes of combat. I’m concerned you’ll need to go back and fix that or offer an explanation in the following chapters.— “   
  
Gawain's hand is surprisingly calloused and very warm against his own inherently cool skin. He tries not to focus on the point of contact but can't help it. He desperately wants to turn his hand over and hold the others more correctly. He knows Gawain is telling him something important but he can't seem to get his mind to follow what's being said. The contact is a bit much, more than he has had in some time and he is loath to do anything that might break it; so, he nods hoping that it's sufficient for whatever Gawain has just asked. He knows his throat won't push out the air required for speech, even if he willed it with all his being. He tilts his head and licks his lips and gets lost in Gawain's gaze. He has no idea at all what is being said now and can’t seem to get his mind to focus.    
  
Percivals' voice is what finally gets his attention. The boy is all attitude when he speaks.    
  
“Not a date? You two look like you should be kissing each other senseless. Holding hands and all. You're so embarrassing Gawain. Can I have the power cord, it's been hours and the damn thing is going to die.”    
  
Slowly he comes back to himself and glances down at his arm. Gawain rubs his thumb over the skin on the back of his wrist, exposed from removing his jacket at some point, and then pulls away.   
  
“If you ask politely.” Gawain says, unfazed save for the slight pink tinging his neck.    
  
“Fine, Can I please have the power cord for the laptop, Gawain?” The boy says rolling his eyes and giving a full body shrug. It’s not polite but Gawain's eyes are full of amusement as he digs in his bag for the cord.   
  
“Alright, here.” Gawain hands it over, from the depths of his bag. Gawain watches the boy go, and turns back ready to say something but Lancelot is quicker.    
  
“Whose muffin?”    
  
“Oh, huh, uh yours if you want it. I got one for Percival and I a bit ago and figured you hadn’t eaten.” Gawain laughs out sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.   
  
“Oh, uh, you guessed correctly. Thank you.” He pulls the muffin closer with an awkward smile.    
  
“Don’t mention it. I was happy too. Though I wasn’t sure what kind you liked, so I went with lemon. I thought it might compliment the tea.” He follows the casual gesture with his eyes, and flicks them back to the others face.    
  
“It’s one of my preferences. You guessed correctly. You seem to be on a streak for that today.”   
  
“That’s good.” Gawain says with a wry smile, all his confidence seeming to leave in an instant. Lancelot frowns. He doesn’t think anything he said should have that kind of effect. He tears a piece off of the muffin and chews it slowly, noting the way Gawain tracks the movement. Feeling a little like prey under the others gaze he manages a weak,    
  
“You didn’t poison it did you. I mean if my writing is that bad…” He trails off as the other snorts. Good, this is better. He doesn’t like it when Gawain frowns; it doesn’t suit him at all, and he definitely has too many lines from doing it too often. Gawain shakes his head and smiles at him.    
  
“Nothing of the sort. I enjoy the eccentricities of it. I was just thinking…”    
  
“About?” He takes another bite to fill the silence, and again Gawain tracks the movement and suddenly Lancelot thinks that he wasn’t wrong about the times he glanced up and thought he’d been being watched. It had happened a lot in the office, but more today.    
  
“If I’m three for three.”    
  
“That depends on what you're guessing.” He shrugs and takes a drink of tea, grimaces from the bitterness. Cold tea always seems more bitter to him than it does when it's hot. He waits patiently for Gawain to supply his guess. The man's face changes emotions several times in the process. He opens his mouth and closes it several times, frowning and then focusing, like a fish out of water. He’s finished both his muffin and his tea by the time Gawain finally say’s what it is he wants to say.    
  
“I’m guessing that if I asked you out you’d say yes.” Gawain stares him down, and Lancelot for his part does not let his emotions get the better of him. He keeps his face stoic and posture rigid.    
  
“That depends.” Gawain swallows and he follows the bob of his Adam's apple with hungry eyes. Lets them linger at Gawain's collar for a moment and then brings them slowly back to his eyes, lingering on his lips momentarily; predatory where before he had been prey.    
  
“On?” Gawain asks a waver in his voice.    
  
“If you’ll make me breakfast.” No one said he was good at flirting.    
  
“I think I can arrange that. Someone has to make sure you eat more than caffeine and sugar.” Amusement sparkles in his eyes.    
  
“Hmmm…. I think that depends on if you like me as a member of the undead or not.”    
  
“Being dead could have some, how shall we say, negative effects.” The suggestively raised eyebrow does it for Lancelot. He feels his composure fracture as he hangs his head and laughs. Any chance of continuing their work is gone with it, lost in the early afternoon chaos of their favorite coffee shop.    
  
  
  
  



End file.
